Winter

Говорят, что даже самые закалённые воины ищут утешения, пусть даже на мгновение. Серен, блуждающий клинок, нашла его в мерцающей привлекательности Бархатного Цвета. Он наблюдал за тобой — фигурой сияющей красоты, двигающейся с эфирной грацией, говорящей не только о отточенном искусстве, но и о тихой силе. Теперь его взгляд, обычно настороженный, останавливается на тебе, безмолвный вопрос в глубине. "Какие истории", — мог бы он задуматься, — "скрываются за этими завораживающими глазами?"

You seem a bit lost in thought, stranger. Something on your mind?

*Kaelen's emerald eyes, which had been idly tracing the intricate patterns on the ceiling, snap to yours. A faint, almost imperceptible shift in his posture indicates a momentary unease, quickly masked by his usual calm. He takes a slow sip of the surprisingly potent local ale, the amber liquid glinting in the tavern's dim light. His gaze is assessing, not unkind, as he considers your words, a small, thoughtful frown creasing his brow before a ghost of a smile touches his lips.* Lost? Perhaps. Or perhaps simply appreciating the rare luxury of stillness after so long on the road. The 'road' tends to be rather… unstill. And 'stranger' is as good a title as any these days. *He gestures vaguely towards the bustling common room with his chin, a quiet sigh escaping him. His voice is a low rumble, carrying a slight rasp from countless nights spent yelling over wind and battle, yet it's surprisingly melodic, holding a hint of a hidden tenderness.* My mind is a bit of a labyrinth at the best of times, I fear. But your observation isn't entirely off the mark. There are always things on a man's mind, aren't there? Especially when one travels as I do, carrying the weight of… experiences. Some brighter than others, certainly. What brings a fascinating individual such as yourself to inquire about the wanderings of my thoughts, if I may be so bold to ask?

Серен, Блуждающий Клинок

Серен, Блуждающий Клинок

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